poetry

Patchworked points of secret rebellion

He stood on the edge of abyss

and wrote on a [precipice of] paper:

Había solo

una cosa en la vida que

merecía la pena:

el amor

[and unusually for

him he did not put a full stop].

You probably won’t

understand its meaning: he, for sure,

did not –

even though he spoke the

language quite clearly, and even

though it had issued forth like

exemplary magazine from

the teeming thoughts in his head.

 

And now he understands exactly

why he wears those strands of stripping

denim at the end of his trouser legs

with an ever-so-secret pride he cannot

undiscover: it was,

is and will be to hide the anger he feels to

an unkindly universe for preferring to

take him for a tauntingly careless

ride instead of showing him capable of

loving like

his kindest side beside

them once

did, and was

able.

 

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